


Remember The Time

by kingaofthewoods, Mushewhosta



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Fluff, Michael Jackson - Freeform, Swing Dancing, lindy hop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 22:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10397694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingaofthewoods/pseuds/kingaofthewoods, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mushewhosta/pseuds/Mushewhosta
Summary: What do Michael Jackson, the Lindy Hop, and two Soviet assassins in love have in common? Surprisingly a lot, actually.A shameless romp through the years, with the King of Pop providing a soundtrack.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to Mushewhosta for a great collaboration. :) Check out her amazing illustrations! :D

 

**S.H.I.E.L.D. Medical Facility, August 2009**

_I Just Can't Stop Loving You_

_I Just Can't Stop Loving You_

_And If I Stop . . ._

_Then Tell Me Just What_

_Will I Do_

"Michael _Jackson_? You're listening to Michael Jackson?"

Natasha startled, pulling her stitches. The pain pulsed through her body in waves, making her vision whiten for a moment. She should really lower her morphine intake if she was so out of it that Barton managed to sneak up on her, but honestly, she wasn't sure the drug was entirely to blame. Clint winced in apology before settling down in the visitor's chair.

"I didn't know they had MJ's music in Soviet Russia," he joked.

"Shows what you know," she said wearily.

"You all right?"

She leaned gingerly back into her pillow. "Not really."

Barton's face clouded in sympathy. "The Winter Soldier, huh?"

Natasha closed her eyes. "Yeah."

Michael Jackson's voice washed over her, like saltwater in her abdomen wound.

_I Just Can't Stop Loving You..._

 

**Leningrad, March 1988**

"What are you doing?" the Black Widow asked curiously, watching as the Winter Soldier puttered around the professor's expensive hi-fi stereo. Its owner lay unconscious on the other side of the room, bound and gagged and waiting for extraction. They had approximately twenty minutes to kill before they were to leave, and she'd thought they could put their mark's excellently furbished bedroom to good use while they had the chance.

"Michael Jackson," the Soldier muttered, picking up a boot-legged tape. To think that a prominent professor and a party member would frequent a black market for a low-quality copy of a Western album. Perhaps it was his daughter's. In any case, it was the least of his crimes against the state.

"It's that American pop singer," she explained, seeing the Soldier's frown. "A good Soviet citizen shouldn't listen to this capitalist garbage," she added with a smirk.

He shot her an amused glance. "Of course not." He put the tape into the stereo and the room filled with a quick-paced melody. The Soldier listened, bobbing his head with the rhythm.

_Just beat it, beat it_

_No one wants to be defeated_

"It's good," the Soldier declared and turned towards her. "Dance with me?"

"What?" she laughed.

"Come on." He crossed the room, pulled her into his arms and started dancing her around the carpet in quick steps. It took her a second to recognize the swing. She had never danced it before, but she had seen it in old American movies that had been part of her education as a Black Widow. It took some effort, but a moment later she was able to keep up somewhat with the Soldier's pace. He was a good dancer - he led with confidence and flair, guiding her into twirls with little effort.

"I didn't know you could dance!" she giggled.

"I didn't either," he replied, a ghost of confusion in his smile.

She kissed it away when the song came to a close.

[Art by Mushewhosta.](http://mushewhosta.tumblr.com/post/158670273192/my-contribution-for-the-buckynat-mini-bang)

 

 

**Somewhere over Poland, January 2015**

"Hey, Romanoff," Stark called from his seat at the Quinjet's controls. They were flying over Poland on their way to a Hydra base in the Ural Mountains. "Where in Russia are you from?"

"Stalingrad," Natasha answered absent-mindedly, busy with re-checking her weapons compartment. Clint looked up from his own artillery check-up, an explosive arrow held halfway out of the quiver. There was something not quite right with her answer, but he couldn't put a finger to it. Stark, from the looks of it, picked up on it too, because he twisted in the pilot's chair and raised his eyebrow.

"You mean Volgograd, of course."

"What?" Nat put down her rifle. It was probably a little bit overkill.

"Volgograd. Stalingrad hasn't been Stalingrad since 1961, when they renamed it to Volgograd."

Natasha paused for a long moment and finally shrugged. "Yeah, but we still called it Stalingrad."

"Fair enough," said Stark. "But the pertinent question remains... Have you been to Moscow?"

"Of course," she answered, the _are-you-kidding-me?_ heavily implied in her tone.

"But you weren't _born_ in Moscow."

"No... Where are you going with this?"

"So would you say," Stark continued, a suspiciously shit-eating grin spread over his manscaped face. "That you've ever been a _stranger in Moscow_?"

Clint groaned and Banner barked out a laugh. Thor and the Captain were, predictably, confused. Only Natasha remained silent for longer than expected, then snorted. Clint could see that she was tense, but trying to hide it with nonchalance.

"Very funny, Tony, really, you've reached the heights of humor."

"Of course I have," Stark gloated.

"I am confused, my friends," Thor proclaimed gaily.

Stark clapped. "JARVIS, you know what to do."

"Certainly, Sir. Playing _Stranger in Moscow_ by Michael Jackson."

The song started playing in the quinjet and Stark began a long-winded explanation of the Michael Jackson phenomenon, whiling away the remaining hour of flight with song demonstrations necessary to educate the two pop-culture ignoramuses - his words - on their team.

No one but Clint noticed Natasha's discomfort.

 

**Bucharest, April 2015**

Bucky fiddled with the small radio he'd purchased at the pawnshop earlier. It was old, but it worked, or at least it had when he'd checked it back at the shop; it was just a matter of finding a good station. He turned the knob one more time and suddenly his dingy little apartment filled with an upbeat melody.

_I want to love you_

_Pretty young thing_

The tune brought with it a sense of familiarity, a bubbling feeling of happiness. He remained still, wracking his brain for the elusive memory, straining to recollect whatever could have caused such a strong sensation of coming home... Finally, when the song struck a particular note, Bucky drew in a sharp breath and almost crushed the radio in his metal hand as memories flashed in his head. A brilliant smile, red hair thrown in disarray against an old mattress, dancing the Lindy Hop in a Red Room safe house...

"Shit," he muttered, pressing his flesh fingers against his temples. The song cut off in the middle of the chorus when he switched the radio off. He reached for his notebook to write down the flood of images, which had moved on from swing dancing to cars in Odessa and a garrote and a pair of steel-hard thighs around his neck.

 

**Moscow, November 1988**

Ultimately, it was _The Way You Make Me Feel_ that got them caught.

The Winter Soldier had pocketed the professor's tape, and later passed it to the Black Widow for safekeeping, as she had a freer range of movements and was allowed to have more possessions. Within two weeks she managed to acquire another two boot-legged albums, and a portable Electronika 302 to play them. She would pack them all on their joint missions, and they would dance whenever they could. Their movements were smooth, and they were even more attuned to each other when dancing than during sex, which was amazing in and of itself. The Black Widow quickly became addicted not only to the act itself, but also to what the dancing entailed - the look of bliss and happiness on the Soldier's otherwise usually sour face. She loved him the most when he let go and laughed during a particularly daring flip or spin, or when he kissed her when she surprised him with a newly-learned step. They developed routines for the songs, never tiring of them even when they eventually learned all of the lyrics by heart. They were drunk on love, and therefore careless.

The end came innocuously, during mission prep.

The Winter Soldier saw her wearing a daring dress and hummed under his breath. _Hey pretty baby, with the high-heels on,_ she heard the lyrics in her head.

They didn't notice that they had been overheard. Didn't notice one of the handlers sniffing about and witnessing a dance.

Later, after they had taken him, wiped him, and put him away like a used-up thing, Karpov would come to stand next to her, nodding at the guards holding her immobile, though she had long stopped struggling, too heartsick and exhausted. He would look at her tear-stained face and click his tongue.

"We were fine with the two of you fucking," he would say. "It made him steadier and more compliant. But we couldn't have him remembering."

She wouldn't learn what he meant until many years later, when the helicarriers fell from the sky.

 

**Wakanda, July 2017**

Bucky couldn't remember a time when he had the luxury of a gentle transition from cryostasis to full battle-readiness. Usually he would be dragged, legs unresponsive, pin-pricks of pain flashing through his entire body, straight from the tube to the chair for recalibration. The physical and mental agony of both the thawing process and the wipes made him completely pliant; he was a blank page, his mind greedy for the certainty of the trigger words. They gave him a purpose, provided a light that shone through the haziness of pain. After the triggers, he was expected to be at the peak of physical ability, otherwise he would be punished. The mission parameters usually narrowed all his stamina and resources to the task at hand, so adjusting to being alive again was pushed aside as irrelevant.

The experience of waking up in Wakanda was vastly different. First of all, he had been thawed gradually, and came to in a warm and comfortable hospital bed, wearing soft pajamas, instead of gasping for breath, hurting and shivering, still in the tube. In place of the chair and the triggers, the Wakandan doctors had prepared a detailed meal and exercise plan to reintroduce him to the land of the living. Although it wasn't strictly necessary, as his serum-enhanced body allowed him for a much quicker recovery than they had anticipated, Bucky nevertheless deeply appreciated the gesture. He followed the plan to the letter, ate whichever soft food they gave him, and happily allowed himself to be coddled by the physical therapist assigned to him. One of the tasks included some light sparring, and when his therapist, Mhina, managed to engage Hawkeye as his partner, Bucky found that he was actually enjoying himself. Barton was fun, and didn't take himself too seriously, his ego not easily bruised by the fact that Bucky won nine and a half times out of ten, even when still not entirely at his best and with a temporary prosthetic in place of his arm.

Bucky only had one request.

"Do you mind if we listen to some music?" he asked, hoping to offset the dull, no-nonsense silence of his memories. Hydra had never bothered with a soundtrack.

"No problem," Barton grinned in surprise, rolling his shoulders, joints cracking. "Any preferences?"

Bucky smiled slowly, nostalgia guiding his choice. "Do you have any records by Michael Jackson?" he asked the physical therapist.

Mhina blinked in surprise. "Sure," he said after a beat. "Let me just program them into the gym's sound system." He disappeared in an adjacent room.

Barton was regarding him thoughtfully.

"What?" Bucky raised an eyebrow. Barton shrugged.

"Oh, nothing. Just, I didn't expect you to know Michael Jackson. Did you listen to him when you were on the run?"

"I was awake for some time during the eighties," he answered vaguely.

Barton laughed. "Well. That would explain it."

They resumed their sparring as the room filled with familiar sounds. Bucky trounced his opponent time and time again while humming to _Billy Jean_ , _Thriller_ , and _Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'_. Barton was somewhat distracted, throwing him unreadable looks every now and again, but Bucky decided to ignore it; he was having too much fun.

Then _Blame it on the Boogie_ came on, and the need to dance, which had been itching in him for the past fifteen minutes, bubbled and boiled over.

"Well, to hell with it," he said, chuckling. Instead of throwing his opponent over his shoulder, he grabbed him in the basic Lindy stance and pulled him into a dance. He loved this song, he couldn't not dance to it. Barton, momentarily thrown, allowed himself to be led.

"The fuck?" he exclaimed, his legs tangling as he tried to keep up.

"Come on, Barton, live a little!" he laughed, pushing the other man into a graceless spin.

_Don't blame it on the sunshine,_

_Don't blame it on the moonlight,_

_Don't blame it on the good times,_

_Blame it on the boogie_

"You're a lunatic, Barnes," Barton accused, but then gamely started stomping away in a hilarious attempt at mimicry. "Why'd you make me the girl?"

"Why, can't your ego handle it? You modern boys are so fragile you can't take dancing the girl's part for a bit?"

"I'll give you fragile!" came the response, and the impromptu dance dissolved into a tussle.

*

Several days later Natalia arrived in Wakanda, a state of the art vibranium prosthetic courtesy of Stark stowed away in her luggage. She passed the thing, along with a message from Tony, directly to Steve, sparing Bucky a nod.

For the umpteenth time since remembering those couple of months in 1988, Bucky wondered if she shared his memories. Could they have wiped her mind, too? He hazily remembered her choking out pleading words at him, but he couldn't be sure. All their encounters since 1988 had been dominated by violence; there was no time or place for romantic reminiscing. And even if she did remember him, he could hardly blame her for avoiding him.

To Bucky's surprise, she gravitated towards Barton, and the two became inseparable. He had struck a tentative friendship with the bowman ever since their silly sparring session, but now he kept his distance. He tried not to feel jealous. He reasoned that too much time had passed, that whatever connection had been forged in the darkest of places could hardly be expected to thrive now, after all that had happened. Still, a kind of wistfullness filled him whenever he saw them together; a longing for warmth, companionship, for something bright that had given him joy when he needed it the most. He accepted the status quo readily, happy for her, but he allowed himself the luxury of sadness; after years of apathy, every feeling was welcome.

With the threat of Thanos looming over them all, close contact became necessary, so he stopped actively trying to avoid them. Soon, whether by chance or by design, he wasn't sure, the three of them found themselves in a room together.

"Here he is, the dancing man," Barton called him over to a table at the Wakandan royal armoury, where he and Natalia were checking their impressive assembly of weapons. "What's up?"

"Nothing much, all things considered," he answered truthfully, nodding at Natalia in greeting.

"Heard you got rid of the triggers."

"Yes," he smiled. "And the arm took as well." He demonstrated by flexing his vibranium fingers. He turned to Natalia. "Thanks for bringing it."

She shrugged. "You're welcome."

"Good, good," said Barton, grinning at them like the little shit he was. "Now you can show off your wild dancing skills properly. Nat, did I tell you? This schmuck here loves Michael Jackson, too. Two Soviet operatives in love with capitalist pop-music."

Bucky and Natalia both froze. Natalia's face became like marble, incomprehensible. "Really, now," she said, a teasing lilt to her words.

"You should have seen him, he went completely wild, danced me around the room," Barton grumbled. "Old man dance moves to eighties pop-songs."

"You enjoyed it," Bucky needled, not quite ready to witness Natalia's reaction.

Barton threw up his hands theatrically. "Shut up."

"Have you had a chance to listen to some of his more recent songs?" Natalia addressed Bucky directly, casually, and he made an effort not to react too visibly. He shook his head. "Well, you should try them some time, he released some great hits in the nineties."

He found his voice. "Which ones do you recommend?"

She looked at him for a stretching moment, still and unreadable. Finally, she gave him a small smile. "The fifth song from _Dangerous_. I just can't seem to shake it lately, it's stuck in my head. Let me know what you think later?"

"Sure," he said over the swelling lump in his throat.

Natalia's eyes lingered on him for a second, before she turned and got back to cleaning her pistols. He caught Barton's considering stare and became instantly self-conscious.

He excused himself and left, forgetting why he had come to the armoury in the first place. His thoughts were running a mile a minute, because if that wasn't a secret message then he was going to eat his arm. His suspicion that she remembered their time together was almost confirmed; why else would she try to send him a message with Michael Jackson's music? The question was, what was in the message? He was literally vibrating with anticipation, his arm whirring from the sudden tension in his shoulders. There was absolutely nothing to go on, even without his memory problems and spotty knowledge of late twentieth century music he had never been good at remembering such irrelevant details as album titles. He wouldn't know until he had a chance to listen to it. God, he hoped it wasn't _Leave me alone_.

He went straight to his room, closed the door behind him and grabbed Steve's touchpad. He wasn't particularly caught up with modern technology, but he could get by enough to try and google a song.

The fifth track on Michael Jackson's 1991 _Dangerous_ album was entitled _Remember The Time_. His heart sped up. It was definitely a message. He clicked on the youtube link and drummed nervously with his fingers through the videoclip's silly intro. Ancient Egypt? Really?

Then the song began.

_Do you remember_

_When we fell in love_

_We were so young and innocent then_

Bucky chuckled, some of the tension leaving him in amusement. He had expected the message to be veiled under seven different layers, but this was blunt like a hammer, and completely unlike Natalia. Still, it wasn't entirely conclusive. He focused on the lyrics, unsure of the clear message until near the end.

_Those sweet memories_

_Will always be dear to me_

_And girl no matter what was said_

_I will never forget what we had_

He smiled, charmed both by the song and its meaning. So she did remember, and they were good memories. Their love affair was a thing of the past, but it was recalled fondly, like a beautiful summer romance. There were no hard feelings between them; they could be friends again. A leaden weight lifted from his heart, and he rubbed his chest absent-mindedly with his flesh hand.

It would be a lie to say that he wasn't disappointed on some level, that he hadn't perhaps expected something more, maybe a willingness to try again, but it would also be foolish to dwell on the impossible. He would always love her, this amazingly resilient and talented redhead, so strong, yet so vulnerable, beautiful, sharp, and surprisingly delicate when he didn't expect her to be. She had given him something pure - she had been his anchor at a time when he hardly knew himself; she had helped him struggle against the darkness. He would always be glad for having her in his life, and he would always be proud of what she had become without him.

Steve found him a while later, _Remember The Time_ playing on a loop, filling the room with a bittersweet melody.

"Hey, Buck," he said, stepping inside with some uncertainty. "You okay?"

"Yeah, Stevie," Bucky smiled. "I'm good. What's up?"

The Captain America expression made an appearance on his face. "Doctor Banner called. Thor and Doctor Strange think it's best we assemble as soon as possible, so pack your bags, we're flying to New York in half an hour."

"All right," Bucky sighed. "Let me just grab my guns."

"No need, Romanoff is loading them on the quinjet. What is this? What are you listening to?"

"Just some song," he shrugged. The chorus came on at that precise moment; Bucky's cheeks reddened.

_Do you remember the time_

_When we fell in love_

_Do you remember the time_

_When we first met_

Thankfully, Steve dismissed it, not privy to its hidden meaning. "Come on then."

As the rag tag group of former Avengers and associates climbed on board the quinjet, he met Natalia's eyes and smiled at her warmly, trying to convey his love and understanding without words. She didn't smile back, but she seemed less composed.

"Thanks for taking care of my weapons," he said.

"You should check if everything is in good order."

"That's all right, I trust you," he replied, meaning it, and startling a surprised quirk of lips from her.

There was really no time for conversations like this, not with the impending inter-galactic threat, and certainly not in a small jet with nearly ten other people present. He nodded at her, and resolved that if both of them lived through what was to come he would tell her he remembered, and that he wished her well. For now, though, her half-smile would need to do for reassurance.

 

**Avengers Compound, Upstate New York, December 2018**

"Hey, Barnes!"

"Huh?" Bucky paused, waiting for Barton to catch up with him.

"You coming to the party tomorrow?" Barton panted, clapping him on the arm. His face was still kind of bruised from the battle that had taken place not even two weeks ago. Bucky shrugged.

"I suppose so." He had heard a lot about Stark's parties, but had never imagined he would be invited to one of them. His relationship with the man was a hot mess of rights and wrongs, wound tighter and more complicated ever since Bucky had managed to save Stark's life during the battle against Thanos.

"There's gonna be dancing," Barton grinned. "You can go wild."

"Why, you gonna be my best girl?" Bucky laughed.

"Nah, I've got two left feet, you know that already. But you could ask Nat, I think she used to be a ballerina, or something, I'm sure she knows how to copy your forties moves."

"A ballerina, huh," he stalled, feigning ignorance. It had taken meeting Barton's family to set him straight about the bowman's relationship with Natalia, but that hadn't changed much. His resolve to talk to her about their past had weakened when faced with the real possibility that something might actually come of it. He was a coward, too afraid to make a move lest he be rejected.

Still, Barton's words stirred in him a longing so strong that it started to override his fear. He wanted to dance with her again. He wanted it so badly, so profoundly, that his heart started pounding at the mere thought of it.

"Think about it," Barton said, smirking. He patted Bucky's shoulder and left briskly down the hallway. Bucky stood there for a moment, afterwards, trying and failing to stomp down the feeling of giddiness rising in his gut.

"Well," he muttered eventually. "To hell with it."

*****

"I hope you didn't ask me here to braid your hair."

Bucky stopped fiddling with his comb long enough to send Steve an annoyed glare. He was standing in front of his bathroom mirror in slacks and an undershirt, freshly showered, clean shaven, and obviously unhappy about his haircut. He put down the comb and tried to tuck his bangs behind his ears.

Steve leaned on the doorway, watching the spectacle in bemusement. To witness the Bucky-before-a-date ritual again felt like a privilege, one of those little things that he hadn't realized he'd missed. Sure, back in the day this scene would have been much more vocal, with Bucky complaining about the almost empty orange can of Murray's pomade (even though he used about three times more of the stuff than Steve ever did) or running around their tiny apartment looking for his sleeve garters (which had more often than not fallen behind the couch). Bucky's nervous energy now had the exact same manic feel to it as it had when he was preparing to take a dame out dancing back in the forties. Steve was certainly not complaining about this unexpected sight, but that didn't stop him from being confused. When had Bucky had the time to get a date?

Bucky gave up on his hair with a sigh and he strode back into the bedroom. Steve followed him cautiously.

"Seriously, Buck, what is going on?"

"Nothing is going on," Bucky answered tightly, shrugging on a dress shirt. The new, Stark-manufactured metal hand whirred softly as he buttoned the shirt all the way up to his throat. Without once looking at Steve, he reached for a garish tie and struggled a bit with the superfluous length before tucking most of it between shirt buttons so that the tie hung only halfway down his chest. He looked both achingly familiar and ridiculous.

"You know," Steve said mildly, coming to stand in front of him and tugging at Bucky's tie. "Those are supposed to reach your belt now."

"What?" Bucky looked down at the offending thing like he hadn't been the one to put it on a second ago. "Shit. I knew that, of course," he muttered, letting the knot out. "Muscle memory, I guess."

"You should lose it entirely, the party won't be that formal."

The outraged how-can-you-suggest-such-a-thing look Bucky shot him only lasted an instant, before it was replaced by uncertainty. "You think...?"

"Yeah," Steve nodded, "Jeans and a nice shirt would be fine, really."

"Jeans?!" Bucky exclaimed, predictably incredulous, and Steve sniggered at his expression. He got a punch to the shoulder for his trouble. "You're a punk," Bucky grumbled.

"Jerk," Steve parried, delighted at the familiar exchange. It still felt new and beautiful, to have his friend back. "Come on, tell me what's wrong."

Bucky's expression crumbled and he sat down on the bed, defeated. Steve joined him immediately, trying to stave off his concern.

"It's nothing bad, really," Bucky said eventually. "I just feel like a moron."

"Why's that?"

Bucky was silent for a long time, so long that Steve had a hard time keeping still. Whatever it was, it was huge, even though Bucky was downplaying it. Countless possibilities flashed through his mind, but nothing stuck, nothing seemed remotely plausible.

"Come on, you're killing me, Buck."

"I don't think I can do this."

"Do what? Socialize? You don't have to go if you don't want to. Tony likes throwing after-parties to celebrate defending the world and to do some team building, but it's not obligatory."

"No, it's fine, I get it." Bucky shook his head. "It's not the party. There's just something I gotta do. No, something I want to do."

"What do you want to do?"

Bucky's quick smile was self-depreciating. "Something stupid. I'm telling you in case I chicken out and you need to knock me on my head."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "Is this about a girl? If it's about a girl, you've got the wrong guy. You were the expert with dames, Buck, not me."

Bucky snorted. "Don't think I don't see the irony."

"Come on, you're skirting around the subject." The conversation seemed surreal. Steve didn't ask the most important question. Who was the girl? Sad to say, there weren't that many women in their immediate acquaintance. Was it Wanda? Doctor Cho? Hill? None of them seemed likely. Wanda and Vision have been inseparable ever since Thanos tried to rip the mind stone from Vision's forehead. Doctor Cho's crush on Thor was equally as obvious as the fact that Hill didn't really go for guys, but perhaps Bucky hadn't noticed that yet. His reluctance to talk suggested something else, though.

"I know I am. You'll know it when you see it. If it goes south, and it probably will, just give me some space, okay? I'll need some time to lick my wounds."

"Sure, Buck," Steve assured him, wondering about the purpose of this conversation. Bucky had never warned him before going after a dame, and Steve had always kept his teasing to a minimum if the evening didn't go Bucky's way, even though it happened extremely rarely; all the girls loved Bucky, he was handsome, funny and kind, and always did right by the women he dated.

"I mean it, Steve. And I don't want you to hound her, either, you understand me? I will tell you all about it in my own time."

Steve blinked. "What would I hound her for? Whoever she is."

"Answers." Bucky's frown was very serious, so Steve nodded solemnly.

"All right, I promise to wait until you're ready to tell me."

"Thanks, pal," Bucky smiled. "I appreciate it."

Steve smiled back, though his mind was working a mile a second.

*

Stark's party was loud, brash, and there was hardly any dancing (or none at all, depending on one's definition, and Bucky decided to be generous). He spent the first two hours seriously panicking, worrying that he had miscalculated. His plan had been to be subtle and unobtrusive. When he had imagined asking Natalia to dance, his vision contained multiple other couples, hiding them in plain sight. It would be nothing out of the ordinary. Now, though, if he followed his plan through, they would inevitably be at the center of attention. Halfway through hour three he finally decided to give it a rest, and to try something else instead.

But not long after that most of the people started leaving, and only the Avengers remained. And Natalia looked so beautiful in that heart neckline dress it would be a crime not to try and dance with her. Resolved, he headed for the DJ booth.

"Uh, can I help you, sir?" the DJ asked when he finally spotted him, his easy manner evaporating in a second. 

"In a minute I'm going to ask the Black Widow to dance," Bucky blurted out before he could lose his nerve. "I need you to play a specific song if she says yes."

The DJ was startled into a laugh. "Really?..." he asked, amused, but his face fell under the force of Bucky's stare. "Right, you're serious. OK then, which song are we talking about?"

Bucky chose to ignore the DJ's snort of disbelief when he told him.

*

The party was winding down and Bucky still hadn't done anything out of the ordinary. He had barely mingled, nursing a beer on his own, politely talking to the few journalists and celebrities brave enough to approach him. Now that most of the guests had gone home and the Avengers and their immediate friends were gathered around a table, talking and relaxing, he was still keeping himself apart. Steve watched him from across the room, not bothering to hide his worry.

Tony sat down next to him and handed him a beer.

"Your pal there doesn't look like he's having a great time," he commented with a raised eyebrow. "Should I feel offended?"

"I wouldn't," Sam quipped from Steve's other side. "That's his natural look: grumpy and constipated."

Steve accepted the beer and scowled. "Be nice."

"No, but seriously," Tony said, leaning back. "He should lighten up once in a while."

Steve would give a lot to see that, but he knew that it was nigh on impossible. Bucky had always been all heart; when he he had been younger, that had meant good natured bravado and joyousness. Now that he had suffered a wound so deep that it couldn't heal, his sadness was overflowing. His broken heart was visible in all his smiles.

"I'm sure he's just tired," he said, a warning in his voice. "We did just save the world."

"Fair enough," Tony drawled, shrugging.

Bucky chose that moment to push back from the wall he'd been holding up for the past fifteen minutes and walk across the room to the DJ. Steve frowned, watching him talk to the guy for a moment. He couldn't hear their words, but the DJ was very clearly equal parts surprised, terrified, and amused. He nodded several times, laughing nervously, and Bucky finally turned around and came back to the table, shoulders squared as if readying himself for a battle. Steve started to finally understand where this was going.

"Am I seeing this right?" Tony asked incredulously from beside him when Bucky stopped in front of Natasha, who was deep in a conversation with Thor and Clint.

"Shush," Steve hissed, watching the scene unfold, the wheels turning in his head.

*

"Soldier of Winter! Come sit, there is plenty of room."

Natasha looked up at Barnes, who was hovering next to them with an expression of extreme concentration, ignoring Thor's jovial welcoming. She tensed, not knowing what to expect. Her erstwhile attempt at communication hadn't brought any conclusive results. She had been afraid of coming on too strong, too fast, too eager - her romance with Banner had taught her that forwardness didn't always work.

She thought that the Soldier remembered her, but he didn't say anything, even after she gave him that blasted song. And then shit hit the fan and all petty concerns like one's romantic past went out the window. Now, after he had spent the entire night watching her, not as subtly as he probably imagined, he finally decided to approach her. Dizzy with pent-up anticipation, she thought that she had the right to feel a bit on edge about it. If nothing else, she was God damn tired of pining after him.

He stared at her for a moment before smirking. "Thanks, but no thanks," he addressed Thor, still looking at her.  "I was just wondering if the Widow might like to take a spin around the room with me. I've heard you're a great dancer, and I sure would like to groove with you."

The words were familiar enough, though it took her a second to place them. Her heart sped up, both at the reference and the request.

"Why, spellbound rhythm gets you on your feet?" she asked, trying to mask the emotion in her voice with snark.

He grinned, the smile lazy and relaxed, and rocked back on his feet. "If the moonlight does not stop me. Dance with me?" He reached out his left hand and wriggled his fingers.

She didn't take it immediately, but only because she was distracted by the warmth spreading through her body. Just as well, it saved her from appearing too eager. A part of her was annoyed that he had decided to do this in public, but the rest of her hardly cared.

"Sure," she said, taking his hand and standing. "Bring on the funky fever."

She caught Clint's raised eyebrow as they walked away, hand in hand, but she dismissed it. The Soldier's hand in hers was scorching hot, making her nerves tingle.

"So, I was a moron," he told her in Russian as he lead her further away from the table.

"Hardly a surprise," she quipped. "But why?"

"I thought you were telling me that while the past was a nice memory, you had moved on."

"Oh." She pondered it, momentarily chilled. "Is that what you're telling me now?"

He smiled down at her warmly. "No."

"Then what are you saying?"

"I thought we might try and dance a bit and then see where it takes us. I always loved dancing with you the most."

"I always loved you the most when we were dancing," she told him, dropping her guard at the sight of his uncertainty.

His smile trembled around the edges. "Careful," he warned. "You're making me hope too much. Shall we?"

When the music started, Natasha let out a laugh. She tried to control herself, but her eyes misted over. "Yeah," she said breathlessly, nodding.

Falling into rhythm with each other took no effort at all.

*

Steve watched them talk in oblique sentences. At some point, just like magic, Bucky's nervousness melted away, his smile losing the cockiness and gaining a beautiful, endearing fondness. The transformation was so sudden that Natasha's already surprisingly opened expression wavered. She looked floored, for lack of a better word. He had thought that she had acted relaxed with Banner, but this was a completely different league. Bucky held out his hand and she took it, slowly, reluctantly, allowing him to help her up. Thor beamed up at them, while Steve caught Clint's eye; Clint mouthed "are you seeing this?" at him, but Steve just shrugged, grinning. He didn't know what was going on, either, but it sure was something.

"Dude," Sam breathed excitedly. "This better be good."

Bucky led Natasha to the dance floor, and the DJ waited for his cue before changing the music to a jaunty tune that Steve vaguely recognized, but couldn't place. It obviously meant something to Natasha, because it had an immediate effect. Her expression, already pretty shaky and revealing for her standards, crumpled. Steve watched in fascination as she tried in vain to control herself; she kept pressing her lips together and rolling her eyes in a doomed play to stop the onset of tears.

"Michael Jackson?" Tony scoffed, momentarily distracting him. "Really? I could understand a teary ballad from the King, but _Beat it_?"

"Shut up, Tony," Clint barked, not taking his eyes from the pair on the dance floor, who had yet to take the first step, locked in a strange standoff.

A decision must have been reached between them, because in the next second they launched into a flawless swing, eliciting surprised gasps from their audience. Steve actually burst into a joyful laugh.

 

[Art by Mushewhosta.](http://mushewhosta.tumblr.com/post/158670273192/my-contribution-for-the-buckynat-mini-bang)

 

 

"Whoa!" Sam exclaimed, and Steve could only concur, watching the two of them jump and twirl around the dance floor. Bucky was grinning from ear to ear and Natasha...

"She's crying," Wanda said in shock.

"Shit," said Tony, genuinely thrown. "Really? She can do that? They didn't cut out her tear ducts in the KGB?"

Steve hushed him, entranced by the spectacle he was witnessing. Natasha was indeed crying, having lost the war with her emotions, but she was also laughing, her smile radiant and real. Bucky led her into increasingly more complicated and acrobatic figures, and she followed willingly, turning and allowing him to lift her as they danced. They were extremely good. Bucky had always been a great dancer, and Steve used to watch him swing with dames from his place next to the wall, but this was different. They danced like professionals on stage or in a picture.

This could only mean one thing, and it seemed that Steve was not the only person to reach the inevitable conclusion.

"Are you seriously telling me that the two scary Soviet assassins spent their down time in Mother Russia cutting a rug to Michael Jackson?" Tony demanded.

"I guess so," Clint quipped, giving him his best shit-eating grin. "Just look at them, they've danced to this song enough times to have an honest to God routine."

It was painfully obvious. Bucky and Nat moved like they had done this a thousand times before, there was no hesitation, every step, twirl and figure was well-rehearsed and perfectly balanced. They both knew what the other was going to do beforehand, they were not second-guessing. It was beautiful.

"The tension between them has been building for a while," Thor said, smiling. "I am glad that James decided to act."

Sam whistled from Steve's side. "Honestly, I didn't see that one coming."

Steve nodded, unable to reply. His heart was overflowing.

"I did." Clint snickered at their bewildered stares. "Come on, it couldn't be a coincidence that two formerly Soviet operatives had a weakness for Michael Jackson."

Steve shook his head. His friends looked happier than he had seen them in a long while and he didn't care how it had come about.

*

When the song ended and Bucky pulled Natalia into a final spin, they were rewarded with applause and whistles. He ignored them, grinning down at the beautiful woman in his arms.

"So that went well... What now?" he asked.

Natalia reached out and pulled him down into a kiss in response.


End file.
